


Monster

by Pink_Siamese



Category: Criminal Minds, Dexter (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:30:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Siamese/pseuds/Pink_Siamese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily meets Dexter in a bar. She knows that she recognizes him from somewhere but can't place him. He knows she's a serial killer and has targeted her as his next victim...and now the game is afoot. Prompted by and written for Montiese.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster

It’s not the kind of place she favors but tonight she’ll take any escape from the team. She loves them, they are like family, but family gets all kinds of heavy sometimes and chafes at tender emotions.

Not that she’s so full of tender emotions. Emily thinks about it, tuning out the lasers and throbbing bass; she wonders. She stares off into the shifting darkness. Her foot bobs to the beat. Do I even have those any more? Did I outgrow them?

The margarita feels just right in her mouth: sour, pungent, salty, the alcohol fumes filling her sinuses.

She looks up. Cutting through the shifting sea of humanity there’s this gaze, eyes looking at her, peering through smoke sliced into ribbons by spastic green light. She holds her glass and looks at a glowing red exit sign, feeling the wind of moving bodies brush against her skin. She glances back. He’s still looking. Native, she judges by the thin cotton clothing his shoulders, but unfortunate. He’s a ginger. How all that pale freckled skin suffers in this sort of climate.

He stares at her. She feels his eyes stalking across her body even though he’s too far away to detect movement. His look, like hot feet crawling up the inside of her skin.

Emily lifts her chin. There’s danger in that look. It flickers, tries to hide beneath frank speculation.

She takes a long drink. The tequila sets alight in her blood, floats up through the layers in her head. It’s like ashes on a hot wind. Ice cubes knock against her teeth. She sucks one into her mouth, stirs them with her narrow straw, and waits.

“Hi,” he says.

Emily crunches the cube between her teeth. For a split-second the music is erased. She shifts the pieces around in her mouth and smiles. “Hi.”

“So what do you think of that Lady Gaga?” His smile turns self-conscious as he points to the ceiling. He laughs.

Emily looks up as though she might be suspended from the ceiling in a cage. “She’s repetitive: that boy is a monster, that boy is a monster. He ate my heart. He ate my heart.”

“And then he ate her brain.” His smile widens. “Don’t forget.”

“Yeah.” Emily pulls the straw out of her glass and slides it into her mouth. “And you are?”

“Just a rogue musical critic out here gathering opinions in the wild. You?”

“Uh huh.” Despite herself, Emily laughs. “I’ll start. Hmmm, let’s see.” She looks at the ceiling. “My name is Emily. I’m in town on business.”

“I see.” He sits beside her. “My name is Dexter. I’m in town because I live here.”

“Well, well. Imagine that.” Emily grins. “You like hitting the clubs, Dexter?”

“Not so much. Not usually. Well, sometimes.” He leans forward as if to impart a great secret. “My sister makes me do it.” His eyebrows go up. “She says it’s good for me.”

“And is she right?”

“Well, she’s right tonight.” He nods to the bartender. “Do you mind if I buy you another drink?”

Emily puts on her most brilliant smile. “Are you gonna leave the roofies in your pocket?”

Dexter holds her gaze for a handful of seconds. “Scout’s honor.”

She uncrosses her legs, tosses her head back, and laughs.

*             *             *

He’s not sure why she’s laughing. It goes on longer than it should, moves far past the boundaries of normative social interaction. Her face relaxes. It lights up.

It makes her body loose. He looks at that instead. He takes his focus off the gales of her laughter and lets it fall into the looseness of her joints instead. She shifts on the stool. The way she does it feels fluid, like she’s gone tidal inside her skin. It makes him wonder things. Does the scent of her skin change as she runs through her gamut of emotions? Is there a detectable difference between fear and sleep? Does lust ripen in her mouth like the odor of the sea?

“You know,” she says, “most guys would’ve been offended by a statement like that. Not you, though. You just rolled with it.” She sips her fresh margarita. “Nice.”

She’s giving him her full attention. He recognizes that smile. In it is the sound of gates opening.

“I know it’s the lamest line in the world, but I swear you look familiar to me.” Emily swirls the glass. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

“No.”  He flashes her a quick smile. “At least, not anywhere I saw you first.”

She nods. “I guess it could’ve been anywhere. I travel a lot for my job. How about you?” Her foot starts to move with the music. “Do you travel a lot for your job?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“So…you like dancing, Dexter?”

He smiles and shakes his head. “Nope.”

“Too bad.” She rolls her head, loosening the muscles in her neck. “I feel like moving. Burning some of this alcohol off. What do you think?”

“I could watch.”

“Come on.” She slides down off the stool. “Everyone knows it’s just an excuse to touch in public. Let’s go.”

He’s intrigued by her body. She’s slim, athletic, pale in a way only white Northerners can maintain through the summer. Her dress is a black, knee-length, a basic style that would be boring on another woman. But not this one. He watches her walk away from him, weaving into the crowd. He watches her pause and look back over her shoulder. Her red lips part in a smile.

This woman’s made to wear black.

In profile she looks severe, like a Slavic model chosen for the exaggeration of certain ice-sharp facial features. She’s lean, but her breasts are full and round. Her hips are like a cradle. In motion, she becomes a thousand times more interesting: the carriage of her shoulders feels vulnerable while the tilt of her hips conveys a humming control like the tension in a steel cable. Her legs are pistons. There’s a slight swagger there, a daredevil holding onto the insides of her knees, peeking up at him from the space between her thighs.

“Come on!”

Emily puts her arms around his neck. He smells the bitter lime and alcohol on her breath.

“Hey, wait. Did you work on the Bay Harbor Butcher case?”

“Yeah.” He smiles to cover his surprise. “Did you?”

“For five minutes or so. Then Lundy’s team swooped in and took over. I remember you, though.” She giggles. “I think. Some kind of lab tech. Playing with the blood. Yeah?”

“Yeah. Regardless of how much tequila you’ve had tonight, I’d say your memory is just fine.”

“You call this dancing?”

Dexter looks down at his swaying body.

Emily gives him a sly smile and touches the underside of his chin. She lifts his eyes to hers. “It’s like fucking standing up. You do know about fucking, right?”

His hands move from her waist to the curves of her hips. “You’re flirting with me, right?”

Emily laughs and makes tight circles with her hips, leans forward. She touches her lips to his earlobe. “You’re kidding me, right?”

*             *             *

It has to be an act. His hands on her know what they’re doing; they’re murmuring things through the  material of her dress, past her sensitive skin, whispering directly to her bloodstream.

Emily runs the bridge of her nose along a tendon in his neck. He tenses a little, quivers.

“So what are you waiting for?” His thigh bumps between her knees and she presses the heat of her cunt into his jeans. “Fuck me standing up.”

“I’m waiting for a better song.”

She laughs, unwinding with it.

His hands drift over her ass. “Are you always so forward?”

“No.” She shakes her head, looking up into his eyes. “Not always.”

He squeezes her buttocks, draws her closer. “What would your team think?”

“Why would I care about that?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

He traces the outline of a shoulder blade. “So the government pays you to pick up strange men in bars?”

“Ha ha.”

He runs a hand up beneath the weight of her sweaty hair. He takes hold of her nape and brings his mouth to her ear. “I sure wish the state of Florida paid me to pick up strange women in bars.”

*             *             *

There’s desperation in her body. It seeps out, rubs off all over his hands, saturates her breath. He follows the erratic light into her dilated pupils.

Dexter always reads lust and desperation the same way.

She pushes him against her car door and pulls him down into a kiss. Her red mouth stays soft. Her tongue is polite; it follows his, acclimates to his mouth.

He thinks of Lila. Emily’s body feels different in his hands: less bone, softer meat. He kisses her and thinks about the knife, the resistance of Lila’s intercostal tissue and the frantic fluttering of her punctured heart. He remembers the delicacy of death as it settled into her face. He gets hard.

Emily’s kissing grows intense. His ears fill with the ragged sound of her breath and the aggression of her tongue settles into the pit of his belly. Her hips press against his groin. They swivel, muscular contractions slow and deep. The friction itches in his mind. His hand fills itself with her breast. He grinds his mouth down onto hers. Her heart throbs beneath her ribs. Her nipple is puckered and stiff.

Dexter starts to pull up the skirt of her dress. She puts a hand on his wrist. Muted music thumps into the sticky night air.

“Pretend you’re the Bay Harbor Butcher,” she pants.

The words strike him like a harpoon. He stiffens. Emily reaches down and cups his crotch. Sweat slicks up his hairline. She lifts up her face and licks it off. His cock pulses through the tight denim.

“You want me to,” he murmurs, his lips skating along the heat of her skin. The scent of her hair fills him with restlessness. “You want m-me to think about…cutting you up?”

Emily rubs her mouth against the underside of his jaw and her hand squeezes. “Down here says yes.”

“Yeah, well, up here says,” he kisses her, tongue slipping around hers, “up here says you’re one fucked-up…” He unzips his jeans. She pulls up her skirt. He starts to pant. “Fucked-up…”

She grips his neck, holds her mouth close to his. “You know what I am,” she breathes. “I know what you are. I know what you’re doing.” Her voice drops into a whisper. “Now fuck me standing up.”


End file.
